The Tower Broken(116)

He heard a sound to his left, and turned to see three Blue Shields leading a host of men and women into the corridor, blond of hair and wearing woollen tunics. They must be the Felting slaves who had caused so much trouble. The emperor had found them at last. They were being led towards the throne room.

But cold air rushed against his skin; the hair stood up on his arms and a ringing pierced his ears and sent his teeth to vibrating. He stumbled. This was the familiar power and dread that came from pattern-work, except this time greater than any he had felt before: the first austere was preparing a master working.

In a panic Didryk looked around at the Felting slaves. Let me save at least one … at least one this time.

And then he found the boy, all blond curls and green eyes, and Didryk knew who the child must be, knew what Banreh had not told him, understood at last what had driven his friend to Nooria. Quickly he crouched and drew a ward upon the boy’s forehead. No sooner had he finished than the pattern-work pushed over Didryk like a wave and he held the boy’s head against his jacket, hiding his eyes.

All around him the Felt flew apart, blood and bone slicing through the skin, their bodies opening like flowers, showing organs and glistening muscle. His jacket was soaked with blood and he tasted something foul on his lips. He felt the same rage he had felt the day his city had been destroyed. Why? The first austere would die. Didryk would live long enough to ensure that.

But the boy was safe. ‘Don’t look,’ he admonished, carrying the boy away, into the throne room. ‘Come, you will see your father soon.’





52



Mesema


Mesema took Nessaket’s arm. ‘Come, Mother. I will take you to your room.’

Sarmin watched them, a grave look on his face. He would send High Priest Assar to the women’s wing; she did not need to ask him. As she moved towards the corridor a guard caught her eye and shook his head: no, something bad waited for her there. Always something bad. And from behind him Duke Didryk pushed his way into the throne room, a boy in his arms, blood on his robes.

Banreh’s boy: she could not mistake him. His grass-child, the one he said he had wished he had made with her. She paused, Nessaket leaning against her, and looked at him, so much like the man she had loved that she felt a tear in her eye. Had loved.

She had been right about the slaves. She had been right about Lord Nessen’s manse, about Arigu, about everything. And in all that time she had doubted herself. Closed in by the palace, closed in by the generals and priests as much as the ancient table at which they sat, she had doubted herself: she, who had found a way through Helmar’s pattern, who had freed Sarmin from the torment of his old room. Only Sarmin had ever listened to her. Sarmin had taught her to read, had listened to her words, had fought the Pattern-Master at her side. She turned towards the service door, but Arigu blocked her path.

‘The chief didn’t tell you, did he?’ Arigu inclined his head in the boy’s direction. ‘There is always something he’s not telling, something he wants you to do for him. You might have lost everything for that slave boy. The duke, too. Did your Chief Banreh care?’

‘But you knew.’ Mesema spoke with sudden understanding. ‘You knew the boy was Banreh’s son when you took him for a slave.’ She paused. ‘And it was you who put me at risk, not him.’

Nessaket spoke in a hoarse voice. ‘That is how Arigu intended to control him – the same way I once sought to control Beyon through keeping Sarmin. But the horse chief is no Beyon, to wait and to hope and to despair.’

Shocked, Mesema glanced at Nessaket’s face. Her eyes were focused far away. She was not well.

Arigu’s hand gripped his sword-hilt, but he did not draw. It was only a dark memory that had moved his hand.

Without another word Mesema pulled Nessaket through the side door. Everyone in the palace sought to control everyone else. And Banreh had sought to control her: he had brought her here and convinced her to accept Arigu’s treachery, only to try to persuade her to return with him once it all went sour. His friend Didryk had marked her arm to force her actions. But she was not important, not really; only the sons she might bear. Sons they would also try to control.

Only Sarmin valued her for who she was.

The stairs were difficult for Nessaket, but the guards offered their assistance, and at last Mesema steered the Empire Mother into her bedchamber and sat her down upon a bench.

‘It is over for me,’ Nessaket said.

‘All you need is sleep,’ Mesema said, plumping the cushions.

‘I did not mean that I would die,’ said Nessaket, sounding more like herself. ‘Only that I am finished with the palace. I am finished with its whispers and its daggers and its love of war. Once I wanted it all for myself, but I am done with that. It no longer has value for me. After I have rested I will sail south with Daveed.’